Walking After You
by Splinker
Summary: It wasn't the time to tell him that I still loved him. That I never stopped. It was pathetic, really. Two years ago, he'd silently begged me to say that stuff to him. And now, I had to tell myself not to.


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Walking After You

It fucking sucked when he wasn't around. And I blame him for that. If I thought those few minutes when I thought he was dead were bad, it was nothing compared to how it was after he left. It's not like the world stopped moving just because he wasn't around anymore. But, it definitely wasn't the same. He was everywhere and yet nowhere. I could feel him at the loft, the diner, Babylon, even my office. The worst part was coming home to an empty loft and expecting him to greet me with a smile and a how-was-your-day fuck.

I really just wanted to put it behind me. I mean, I was the fucking king of Liberty Avenue. I was legendary. Just because I took a...hiatus didn't mean I couldn't go back to the way things were before. Our lack of contact made it easier, once I made the choice to forget about it and move on. That was best. He was there, and I wasn't. I wasn't going to sit around and fucking pine for him like a little school girl, or worse, a muncher.

I had denied my primal urges for far too long. I brought home this trick with the hottest ass I'd seen in days. It'd been at least two weeks since I'd fucked someone that wasn't Justin. We were in the middle of things when, as I reached over to the side table for a condom, I found that fucking box. That pulled me out of my sex-induced reverie pretty fucking quickly. I really thought I had put them away. Somewhere where I wouldn't accidentally stumble upon them. At my exclamation of _Fuck! _the trick looked up at me from his place at my groin and said, "I plan to." I noticed then that his hair was greasy as shit. How had I not seen that before? Whatever that bitch Anita gave me must have been really strong. I pulled his head away from my dick and stood up.

"Okay. Obviously, you've never heard of me. One, I don't get fucked; I fuck. Two, get the fuck out." He muttered something on his way out that I couldn't have given a shit about. I had left the drawer open and could see the box from my position on the bed. If I had just returned them I could have had my dick up a hot ass. But I didn't. I was sitting on my bed, naked with half a hard-on, staring at a velvet box. On a Friday night.

I got up from the bed and took the box out. I wasn't about to open it. Seeing them would just make things worse. I walked to the closet and looked for that silver shoe box. It was under my gym bag. I sat on the bed and opened it. It wasn't like I kept that shit because I looked through it all the time. I just kept it because there was no way I was going to throw it away. I wasn't trying to forget about him as a person. I just didn't want to be reminded of our romantic involvement all the time. I threw the ring box in there, not bothering to rifle through it. I already knew what was in there. A shirt of his and some sketches he'd done. And one of our wedding invitations. I chided myself for even putting that last one in there, but I thought that if I didn't, I'd regret it later.

That right there, that's when the whole problem started. _No apologies, no regrets. _I lived by that for a long ass time before he came along. I liked it that way, too. He changed everything, and now he was fucking gone. When I was debating putting that invitation in there, and I'd told myself that I would regret not keeping it, I was mad. Really mad. At him. At myself. At everyone.

At him, for prying his way into my hangouts and my home and my heart. I was even more mad at him for making me fucking fall in love with him, and then just leaving. Like it was no big fucking deal. Like Brian Kinney, the most fabulous fag in Pittsburgh, didn't declare his love for him and ask him to marry him. He walked out of my hangouts and home and heart with ease, looking ahead to his future as a big fat fucking success in New York's art scene.

I was mad at myself for letting him walk out. Not for letting him, for making him. It was my prodding that made him think that if he didn't do this then, he never would. And he'd always wonder _what if... _I wasn't about to let that happen. I wasn't going to let him hold himself back because of me. I was mad at myself for letting him worm his way into every single aspect of my life until it was like he'd always been there. And it really was. He fit in to everything with ease. My friends quickly became his friends. My stand-in mother and resident Proud Gay Mom became his. It fucking bugged the shit out of me, until it didn't anymore. I was fucking furious at myself for not telling him more that he wasn't just the guy that I fucked more than once.

The others, well, I was mad at them for everything. For not trying to stop him. For trying to stop him. For not seeing him as a man until way after I did. For seeing him as a man rather than a lovesick teenager before I did. For thinking that he was in over his head with me. I was incredibly mad, and I couldn't figure out how to make it go away. I just put the rest of that shit in the box and put it somewhere in my closet that I wouldn't remember.

That first week after his initial departure was terrible. I really wasn't expecting to _feel _him everywhere, but I did. I wasn't moping around and shit. But I missed him. More than I thought I would. I figured I would miss that he used to make me coffee in the morning so that it was ready when I woke up. And I knew I would miss his cooking. He actually fixed dinner, a lot. What I didn't expect to miss, though, was the faint scratching of pencil on paper that I could hear while he was drawing. Or the way he could fucking watch the stupidest television shows ever and think they were hilarious. But I did. I missed that. When he first moved in, back when he was still in high school, that pencil on paper scratch bugged the shit out of me. And I was fucking missing it? That is just fucked. And, for that first week, I didn't fuck anyone. I don't really know why I thought that would help. All it did was make me think of him more. Being lonely in your bed one night, and then remembering how the week before you were perfectly content, that fucking sucks.

After I put that ring box up, I just went to sleep. Went to sleep thinking about him and what he was doing at that exact moment. I knew he'd gotten in alright, so that wasn't what was going on. Jennifer had relayed me the message that he was staying with Daphne's friend, and was fine. I don't really know why I was thinking about him. I mean, I was fucking getting my dick sucked, and just the sight of that little box changed things. For two weeks straight he'd been fucking haunting me, and he wasn't even in the same state. That's what did it. The fact that he had power over me, even after he was gone. That was when I decided that it was high time I really move on. Move on and reclaim my title as King of Liberty Avenue. After all, I was still the most fabulous fag in Pittsburgh. One little piece of blond boy ass over a period of five years wasn't about to take that away from me. Damn if I would let it.

The next day, I fucked two tricks in the VIP lounge at Babylon and didn't get home until three a.m. It felt good. I missed the excitement of fucking someone new every night of the week. I was never monogamous while I was with Justin. Although there was a period where I went fucking insane and thought that I never wanted to fuck another ass in my life. That was during the engagement. And then there were those two god awful weeks after he left, but I don't really count that as momogamy.

I was living life just the way I had before he was there. It was good in that familiar kind of way, but I missed him. I missed him the most when I was fucking and when I was in bed. There were times when I would let my mind slip and think I was hearing a softer moan than I really was. That whoever's ass I was pushing into was a little rounder and their hair a lot blonder. But I just let that become a part of it. I missed having him there at night and feeling him scoot close to me in those moments before sleep. I even missed it when he would bring his ice fucking cold feet over to mine for warmth. I really thought it would all go away in time. But it didn't. I fucking ached for him. I had dreams where I was running my hands over pale skin and my tongue was exploring his mouth. It really fucking sucked. But I wasn't going to tell him that. That would just make it harder for him to stay there and continue with his work. It would be harder for me if I told him and he did stay in New York.

When five months had gone by, I received an e-mail from him. We hadn't had any actual communication since he left, but his mother and Deb would let things slip sometimes for my benefit. I was a little surprised at first, seeing his name in my inbox, but I didn't let myself think about it too much. I opened it and read the words. _Paintings, drawings, New York, showcase_. Holy shit. He'd really done it. He'd gone to New York and become a big fat fucking success just like I knew he would. He never ceased to amaze me. He wanted me to come. I didn't even think about not going. I was fucking excited. I wanted to see him. His work. See the look on his face when he saw me.

It wasn't my plan to show up and declare my love for him. That just kind of happened.

Of course, in true Michael/Nutty Professor, Ted, Emmett, and Deb fashion, they all went as well.

When we got off the plane, Daphne and Jennifer were there to greet us. I wasn't really expecting him to be there, at the airport, so I wasn't surprised. But Deb sure as hell was.

"Where the fuck is Sunshine?"

"He's at his studio, finishing his latest piece. Inspiration struck this morning, and he had to get it out," Jennifer replied, with a familiar smile. It was nice to see her. I had dinner at her house with her and Tucker sometimes. We never really talked about Justin. If she did say anything, it was mostly just about his work. What she was saying sounded familiar, too. I remembered a couple times where I thought my dick was going to burst I was so hard, but Justin was busy with his drawings or paintings and couldn't find the time to just suck it. On one occasion, I suggested that he do both at the same time. That got quite the reaction, if I recall.

We all piled in to the cars and made our way to the hotel we were staying at. Only the finest, of course. He was living in Manhattan, and I was trying to hide my excitement from the others. It'd been a while since I had been to New York. Actually, the last time I went was for personal reasons, but not the good kind. I had to go fucking get Justin and save him from his drama princess ways. Although, when we fucked in his hotel room, that was definitely good. I was excited for him, and at the prospect of seeing him. I figured we'd all go to eat after the showcase, and then he'd want to show us all his apartment. And then everyone else would leave, and I'd fuck him into the mattress. It wasn't the time to tell him that I still oved him. That I never stopped. It was pathetic, really. Two years ago, he'd silently begged me to say that shit to him. And now, I had to tell myself not to.

I didn't care how much it was going to hurt when I left, for him or for me. I knew that was selfish, but it just wouldn't have been me to go and not kiss him with everything I had and to not fuck him like we'd never see each other again. It wouldn't have been us. I just wanted to _feel_ him again. All thoughts of how much leaving would hurt left my mind when we got to the place and I saw him.

His back was to me, but I could tell right away that it was him. His hair and clothes gave him away. It was a familiar shirt. I'd seen him in it before, and he had cords on. His hair was just so fucking blonde.

He was talking with some lady in a business suit and pointing to a painting that I could tell was his. I wanted to speak with him alone, so I just went with the others and looked at his stuff and decided to wait until he was free.

It was pretty funny, watching everyone tilt their heads and shift from foot to foot to see if they could see something different than what they'd seen before. Emmett and Ted made a big show of acting pretentious and pretending they knew what they were talking about.

"Ooh, this one is clearly a representation of our current economical state. See, with the coloring and the way the swirls are shaded here and not there?" Ted asked Emmett, who was tilting his head just so. He opened his mouth to say something, but then shut it again.

"What do you think, Em?" Ted asked him, shifting his eyes to Emmett's face.

"Well, I like the painting. But do you see that huge dick?" His head was tilted again, and Ted moved his head the same way.

I didn't see any dick. In fact, there were no dicks at all in Justin's showcase. I was a little surprised, honestly. He'd drawn me naked so many times, I figured there'd be at least one of me up. But, there wasn't.

I hadn't talked to him yet, but as I was walking towards the very last painting, I saw him. He smiled at me. One of those smiles that just lights up his entire face. I felt a pang of regret, for not going with him. For breaking all ties with him. I missed his smile. I missed him. _Shit._ I really missed him. I gave him a devilish smile and was going to go over to him, but Deb got there first. I could hear her chattering on about how proud of him she was and how she loved all of his work.

I looked back to the last painting and, as I got closer to it, I realized that it was me. And him. No dicks. Not even our faces, actually. It was really just two bodies clinging to each other in front of a large window with snow drifting down outside. There was nothing in the painting that would have hinted to the fact that it was him or me, but I could definitely tell. He painted it with such precision, and yet it wasn't precise at all. The only thing that was evident was that it was two men, one of which was very blonde, and the other not. The figures were embracing, and their faces were as close as you could get without actually kissing. It was us, alright. On that last night. It was so exact. It was like he fucking painted it directly as it was happening.

In that instant, looking at that painting, I knew that I didn't want that anymore. I didn't want to be away from him and never hear his voice and pretend that it was for the best. It wasn't. I didn't want to be without him anymore. It sucked. It fucking sucked. He was always there, in the back of my mind. I was fucking two guys a night; I was running two very successful businesses, but my fucking heart was in New York. That little piece of blonde boy ass stole it and ran with it. All the way to New York. In that instant, I knew that it was time for me to get it back. To get him back.

For a while I just stared at that painting. It was fucking creepy how real it looked. It brought me back to that night. To the look on his face when I told him that he'd become the best homosexual he could be. In the beginning, that's what it was about. I was his teacher, and he was learning. It was fucking scary how quickly it changed. I really couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when I realized that he was more to me than just some blonde with a hot ass that I fucked regularly. I just know that it scared me. When we were in that parking garage at his prom and he told me it was the best night of his life, I was fucking scared shitless. I shouldn't have even been there. I should never have fucked him and taken him in, but in that instant I kept thinking that I wouldn't mind seeing that same smile everyday and having him around more often. It was real, and this persistent kid had my heart in a fucking death grip.

"It's scary how real it is, isn't it?"

His question pulled me away from my nightmarish flashback. He was standing to the left of me, and I couldn't see his face, but I didn't have to. I knew it was him.

I turned to look at him, and it was too much. Not seeing his face in five months. That was way too fucking long. He was smiling and I was smiling and there was just too much fucking sunshine.

"It's fucking amazing, Justin. All of them are. It's just...amazing."

He pointed to the one of us, "This is the first thing I painted when I got here. I literally unpacked my art shit first just so I could get this out. It's not like I was going to forget, but I just had to paint it."

"I want to buy it."

"Brian, you don't have to--"

"Justin, it's a fucking amazing painting, and I want it."

"Okay." He smiled then, and I moved towards him and put my arms around him. We just stood like that for I don't know how long. My arms fit around him perfectly just like they always had and it was great. To be able to hold him like that after five months apart. It was great.

He broke away and moved out of my arms and looked at me with a smile on his face.

"I really missed you, Brian."

And then he sighed, and hugged me again. I didn't notice until then that I missed that. I missed that little noise that he made when I hugged him. I squeezed him to me and he squeezed back. We were making up for lost time, letting the months dissolve between us.

When we broke apart I just couldn't stop smiling. I was really going to do it. I was going to tell him that I loved him and had never stopped. I didn't care if we lived in New York or the Pitts or fucking Aruba, as long as we weren't apart anymore. And he was pursuing his art. There was no way that I was going to let him quit. Not when I had paid for him to go to PIFA and he had worked so hard to get here.

I'm sure I was smiling like an idiot the entire fucking time, but I didn't care. Actually, I know I was smiling like an idiot. He told me.

"Brian, what? What are you smiling at?"

I looked him right in the eyes and said, "Justin, I've missed you. I don't even think you realize how much. It's like you're there. At Babylon, the loft, the diner. But you never are. I don't want it to be like this anymore. I don't want us to not talk and then just catch up when the other comes for a visit. It fucking sucks like this. When I told you I was taking a chance on love, I wasn't kidding. I know that you know I wasn't. And I'm not kidding now. I know that I said that it was only time, but I want to see you next weekend _and_ next month. I don't want it to be never again. I want to see you always. I want you there always. With me, always."

He made a face then, and I couldn't tell what he was thinking. I honestly had no idea what his response would be.

"Brian, it can't be like this. We want different things. I want to be with you, not you and every fag in Pittsburgh. Plus, we're in different states."

"It doesn't matter where we are. Here, there. I don't care. I just know that I want to be with you. _Really_ be with you. I'm not going to pretend that I haven't tricked since you left. But I still can't shake the thought of you out of my head. Every time I'm with someone all I can think is that I'd rather be fucking you. It's really annoying. All I want is to get my dick sucked but then I look down and it's not you and it sucks. I love you. I love you and I want to be with you. I can work from here and you are working from here. _We_ can work from here. "

He was smiling and I was taking a chance on love.

All I really remember after that is that he was falling then, and I caught him. I caught him and kissed him and kissed him and it was great.

He's underneath me now and I'm buried inside of him and it feels great. He's alive and pushing against me and this is really happening. His breath is hot against my ear and his hands are everywhere. It's amazing. To know that he wants this and I want this and we both are wanting the same thing. He grips my head and brings it down for a kiss. And his tongue is in my mouth and, honestly, I don't care if I fuck another ass again in my life. As long as I get to fuck him like this and hear him sigh and moan like he is right now. And get to hear the annoyingness of his pencil scratching on paper when he's drawing. As long as he's with me, I don't care.


End file.
